


Things Not Seen

by lancesface



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Blind Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind!John, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Relationships, Fluff and Angst, M/M, PTSD, Possible smut may ensue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lancesface/pseuds/lancesface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back from the war with one less sense than when he left. Can Sherlock help him through getting over the war and used to seeing things in a different way while their relationship buds in the background?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh! Came to me while I was attempting to sleep (that's the way things always seem to go) and couldn't let it go. Anyways...  
> Un-beta'd  
> Un-britpicked  
> Please follow me [here](http://shrlocksass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr  
> (I know, I'm a self promoting little shit but, hey)  
> Please tell me if there are any mistakes so I can correct them.

 

 

 

Things Not Seen

 

_All he heard was the hissing, the never ending spray of the gas. Coating his lungs, his throat, his skin, and his eyes. John felt it everywhere. His skin was on fire and he couldn't see. He was clawing at his body; desperate for the sensation to stop. He just wanted this pain to end. He felt nothing except the terror curl in his stomach as more of the tear gas was pumped into the room. He was a doctor, he knew the effects of tear gas. He could already feel himself losing the feeling in his extremities as the chemical burns did their work. He was going to die. He was going to die here in this dirty room as gallons upon gallons of that now deadly gas was forced on him. He couldn't breath. He…_

 

John woke with a scream. He was shaking and sweating buckets. His breath came in short pants interspersed with little sobs. He still felt the gas on him. It felt like it was still in his lungs-swirling around- trying to take more than it already had from him. He felt it surrounding him and choking him. It was suffocating him. He decided that he needed a shower. That would help get the feeling off of his skin.

 

He reached for the cane that sat on the floor beside his bed. He hated the damn thing. All it did was remind him of what the war had given him or, more precisely, taken from him. Tapping his way from the bedroom to the bathroom was simple work, he’d done it enough times that he could probably navigate it without the help of the cane, but, he was a man of habit. He stripped out of his soaking clothes and let them fall wherever they did with a soft plop. He then stepped into the shower; careful to step on the mat so he wouldn't slip and break something.

 

John sighed as the scalding water stripped away the feeling of the gas; that tingling burning sensation. He stood and let the water run over him in thick rivulets and thought, of course, of the last time he’d seen something, really seen something. It was all he ever thought about anymore. God, he missed being able to see things around him, the colors, the people. Now all he had was black. Just black. It was like being stuck in a nightmare after you’d already woken up.

 

He’d been working on his smell, touch, and memorization with his therapist but all she seemed to be worried about was his psyche. She constantly asked him how he felt. He hated that question. He thought it would be more important to learn, oh, he didn't  know, maybe how not to fall down a flight of stairs. But no, she wanted to talk every time they finished an exercise. About how he felt or what he thought he’d accomplished.

 

John realized that the water had gone cold and shut it off. He reached his arm out of the shower and groped for the towel that was on the rack. He had an appointment today, now that he thought about it. He considered skipping it but figured she’d only call him anyway.

 

He quickly toweled himself off and walked back to his bedroom. His bedsit wasn't very nice. From what he could smell, there had been several tenants who had had a smoking problem and a few others who had thought booze was the answer. Whenever he passed his hand over the walls surface he could feel the fine layer of grime that came from it not having been washed since the time it was last painted. The carpet was even worse, so John avoided going barefoot if he could help it.

 

John dressed quickly; not caring if he really looked presentable. It wasn't like he was doing anything important. He was actually supposed to go shopping with Harry for other clothes that he could use as parts of his exercises but that could wait. The clothes were supposed to help John know the texture of certain colors but he really could already do that. After working in dimmed tents where there was barely enough light to see the patient John had learned the feeling of certain colors and fabrics quickly.

 

After throwing on a pair of jeans and a jumper, John picked up his cane and walked to the kitchenette to make himself a cup of tea. He left the kettle to boil and felt his way around for his RAMC mug. Upon finding it he poured the now boiling water into it and dropped the tea bag in with a plop.  

 

He knew he didn't have any milk so he forwent sugar as well, sipping the bland, store brand tea and grimacing as the scalding liquid made its way down his throat. He really should eat something but what was the point? He was a blind ex-army doctor with PTSD who had no use for his talents now. Why should he bother with food?

 

He settled for an apple. He would most likely eat half of it and throw the other half away but he didn't care. John sat down at his desk and accidently bumped his new laptop. The one equipped with a screen reader and braille keyboard Harry had bought it for him. John really wished she hadn't done that. She was already struggling through a divorce with Clara and her alcoholism, she didn't need to be spending money and doting on him all the time. John breathed a sigh out through his nose. If he was honest with himself, he knew he wasn't happy, but what was he supposed to do about it?

 

John decided that if he was going to go to his damned therapist appointment he might as well get going. He found his clock on his bedside table and pushed the button on the side that would tell him the time.

 

“ 7: 38 ” The  voice spoke in a woman’s monotone voice. Great, he had a whole whopping 22 minutes before he had to listen to an overly soothing woman say how he was haunted by the war and other shite that wasn't true.

 

Grabbing the coat that he had hung near the door, John left the bedsit, tapping his way until he heard the sounds of the main road. The honking of cars and the bustling people who could see where they were going and actually had places to be filling his ears. Suddenly John thought he heard his name being called. That was impossible, he didn't have any friends in the city.

“John, John Watson!?” There is was again. John stopped to turn towards the voice calling his name. Maybe he’d dropped his wallet or something and this was a good samaritan returning it instead of walking off with it.

 

“Yes?” John asked the voice, shifting so he could face the man who’d been calling his name.

 

“Oh, it really is you. I'm Mike Stamford, we trained at Bart’s together.” John reached into his memory trying to dig up anything on a Mike Stamford. Ah! Yes, Mike. They had been close mates while training at the hospital.

 

“Oh, yes, em, sorry.” John stuck his hand out and, to his relief, Mike shook it warmly. John could feel his hands- worn and calloused on his fingertips and dry with the weather. They stopped shaking and John dropped his hands, waiting to see if Mike continued the conversation.

 

“So, care for a cup of coffee or do you have somewhere to be?” Mike offered and John agreed. He knew that if he told his therapist that he’d skipped their appointment for a cup of coffee with an old friend that she would actually be happy.

 

“ Em, yeah, just let me make a quick call.” He pulled out his phone and his wallet and gave Mike the few coins he needed to pay for the drink.

 

+++

 

“So, staying in London?” Mike asked after a couple of sips from his coffee cup as they sat at a park bench.

 

“Yeah, trying to anyway. Not like it’s easy to afford London on an army pension.” John replied with a sigh. He’d been trying to figure things out with the disability offices but right now any money he had saved up was draining away quickly.

 

“I suppose you get a flatshare or something of the like.” Mike offered, shrugging his shoulders.

 

“Really? Who’d want to share a flat with a blind, ex-army doctor.” John scoffed at the idea. He’d always been impossible to live with, even before the war. His mum and sister had always complained that he was too anal about his organization in some places and then a complete disaster in others. It wasn't like he was a difficult person to be around, it was just people didn't seem to grasp his way of doing things.

 

Mike let out a small huff of laughter. “Funny, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Really? Who was the first?” John wondered. Mike really did get around if John was the second person to state that he was a bit hard to live with and in need of a flatshare.

 

“I could introduce you if you like. He’s not far, probably still at the lab. Something tells me that he actually might take an interest to you.” John pondered it. He really could use a flatmate, it would make things a bit easier to deal with and he really should socialize more. He didn't see a downside to at least meeting the man.

 

“Sure, can't do any harm, right?” John pulled himself up from the bench and walked to a trash bin he’d hit with cane earlier.

 

He heard Mike get up from the bench as well, coming over to dump his coffee.

 

“If you don't mind me asking,” Mike sounded unsure and John knew what question was coming next, “what exactly happened?” John huffed. It wasn't that he didn't like the question, in all honestly he did mind it in the slightest, people are curious and you can't blame them for that. No, what bothered John was that people were so shy to ask it. He could tell that people were dying to know so he just wanted to be asked straight out ‘Why was he blind?’ not a cautious bubbling mess of a sentence.

 

“Oh, I was out scouting our territory for enemies on our perimeter and was kidnapped. they put me in a room and tried to get me talk and spill to them our army secrets. When I didn't comply they pumped the room full of tear gas and, well, you were in med school, you know what that does to a people if they’re exposed to it for too long. I got massive chemical burns and went blind. Luckily I was rescued, and yes, I know it’s cliché, but I was rescued just in time before I inhaled too much of the gas and died from the chemical burns.” John let out his explanation with ease. It was one he’d told on many an occasion while recovering.

 

“Wow, mate, I don't know what to say. Sounds like you were mighty brave out there.” Mike patted his shoulder awkwardly. John knew he wasn't supposed to be standing this long in the cold. The part he hadn't told Mike was that before the gassing the bastards who’d kidnapped John hadn't been above torturing him to get the information they wanted. So he’d ended up with gunshots in the shoulder and thigh along with the loss of sight and tissue damage from the chemical burns. And, if he kept standing around in the cold for much longer, his leg was going to stiffen and thenit would be impossible to move around.

 

“So, em, should we go meet this friend of yours then?” John asked after the silence had become so unbearable that he couldn't stand there any longer. He also wanted to get off his leg but that was secondary to the awkwardness that was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  
“Oh! Yes,” Mike seemed to regain some of himself after John had prompted him, “it’s not too far. we should be able to catch a cab, seems bus enough.” Mike continued to talk but John mostly tuned him out. He walked along side Mike until they were able to hail a cab and sit in companionable silence on their way to Barts. John thought that if this man, whoever he was, were willing enough to share a flat with him for a few months it might be just enough to help John to get back up on his feet. John relaxed back into the seat and waited for them to pull up to the kerb. This was turning out to be a much more interesting day than he had originally thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally meets the illustrious Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd  
> Unbritpicked  
> Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> Please tell me any horrid mistakes and I will fix them.  
> Find me [here](http://shrlocksass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Thanks for reading and enjoy!

When they arrived at Bart's lab the smell hit John head on. It was a mix of several different chemical compounds and it reminded him of when he studied here all those years ago, before he had dropped out to join the army. Mike's voice echoed around the room as he spoke and John half heartedly listened, grunting in response when it was appropriate. He could hear the reverberations of sound as they bounced off all the objects in the room. The staff had changed the layout of the room – there used to be four short tables and now there only two long ones. They had also replaced that old fume hood for a professional grade one – the gentle whir of the moving air was quite different from the deafening whooshing of the one John had used.

 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone there's no signal on mine.” A deep voice sounded through the room. From what John could hear the man was standing near one of the long lab tables and was bending down over it – his voice projecting downwards instead of outwards – probably looking in a microscope.

 

“Sorry, left it in my coat,” Mike said after a moment of patting his pockets, “why don’t you use the landline?”

 

“I prefer to text, you know that,” The sonorous baritone responded, sounding exasperated. John felt awkward. He felt like he should offer up his mobile to be polite but in the next breath he didn’t want this man using the new phone that Harry had bought for him, along with the computer, and seeing the braille keys. John wasn’t even sure if the owner of the voice would know how to read braille.

 

In the end his politeness won out. Clearing his throat and looking in the general vicinity of the rooms other occupant, John spoke, “Here, um, you can try to use mine. The keys are in braille so I don’t know if you can read it or not but if you can you're welcome to use it.” He shifted from one foot to the other while he spoke, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve his mobile.

 

There was a beat of silence and then John heard the man slide off the stool and start towards him. When he was near enough the phone was taken out of his outstretched hand and he heard the gentle clicking of the keys. Before John could say anything else, however, the man asked, “ So mustard or tear gas?”

 

John was quite taken aback. He'd barely told anyone about how he was blinded, not there were many to tell, but still. Clearing his head, John replied, “Tear gas but how did you-”

 

“I play the violin when I'm bored and I sometimes don’t speak for days on end,would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” The man cut off John's question with one of his own, simultaneously handing John's phone back to him and reaching for what he presumed was coffee if the smell and sipping noise was anything to go by. John was getting a bit lost somewhere in this conversation. Had Mike said anything to the man when he hadn’t been listening?

 

Turning to where he'd last heard Mike, shuffling his feet, John asked, “So you told him about me, then?”

 

“Not word, John, not a word.” Mike sounded like he was speaking through a smile but John couldn’t be sure, so he let it go.

 

Turning back to the man in question, John opened his mouth to ask something but was promptly cut off...again.

 

“I've got my eye on a nice little flat in central London. Together, along with the deal I get, we should both be able to afford it. Meet me there around 7:00 tomorrow. Now gotta dash, I believe I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” John heard the familiar sound of a coat being swung through the air and onto shoulders. He didn’t know who this man thought he was but he was going to need a little more information than just 'place in central London'. God, he didn’t even know the bloke's name.

 

“How! Did you know about the gas?” He almost shouted to the man's back as he was leaving. He was in no mood for guessing games.

 

The footsteps stalled before retreating a few paces. John continued, “and who said **anything** about flatmates? We barely know each other. I don’t even know your name.” There was a breath and then John felt that familiar little prickle when someone was watching you.

 

“Oh, I don’t believe that in the least. I know a whole lot about you whether you realize it or not. For instance, I know that you were an army doctor that served in either Afghanistan or Iraq. I know you were blinded by tear gas when you were kidnapped on patrol and just barely got away with your life. You’ve got an over protective sister that wants to help out a bit _too_ much and that she is going through a divorce with her wife as well as battling alcoholism. I believe that's enough to be going on don’t you?” The man spoke at the speed of light, spewing out facts of John's life like they were common knowledge. He heard the steps retreating but before he had a chance to regather his thoughts the door creaked, as if someone were leaning on it, and the baritone sounded once more, “My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!” The steps echoed through the halls as Sherlock walked away.

 

John remained in the same spot after the steps had completely faded out, mouth just slightly agape in astonishment. That had been annoyingly amazing! Not that John would admit to that but still. Turning to where he could hear Mike fiddling with some papers, John raised a questioning eyebrow, and made some choked sort of noise that sounded vaguely like the word 'what'.

 

With a small chuckle Mike said, “Yeah, he's always like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just begin by apologizing profusely. My life has been very hectic with school and just general life. I had other things going on and this just took a back seat to everything. And, of course, just when I got motivated and had time to write, I sprained my wrist. So the past to weeks have been back and forth to the doctor's office to check on it and today was the first day I've gotten to write. I know its short but what I'm hoping to do is upload the third chapter tomorrow or the next day. And hopefully that one should be a bit longer. I'm so sorry I made you all wait and I'm hoping that this succession of chapters will appease you.
> 
> As always comments and kudos are loved and fed cupcakes so please leave them in my care. Love you all and thanks for being awesome!
> 
> XOXO


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to meet Sherlock at 221B and they have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd  
> un-britpicked  
> any and all mistakes are mine.  
> please tell me if there any glaring errors so i may fix them  
> enjoy!

“Are you sure you'll be alright, Johnny?” Harry asked again as he stepped out of the cab and handed the money to the cabbie.

 

“For gods sakes Harry, I will be fine, I’m not a child . I don’t need you to stay with me or even help me. I’m a grown man and can take care of myself,” John huffed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for all the help she'd given him, he was, but overbearing sister mode was getting a little old. Stepping away from the cab John turned and tapped his cane twice on the pavement, hearing the echoes bounce off a solid structure in front of him he assumed it was 221B and stepped forward.

 

It wasn’t horribly busy so he didn’t bump into anyone and just after he'd leaned up against a wall to wait he heard a cab pull up behind him. Not being sure if it was that Mr. Holmes fellow he waited to be acknowledged; crossing his hands on the head of his cane as he waited.

 

There was a clearing of a throat and the rich voice fled the confines of Sherlock's mouth, “John Watson.” It was more a statement than a question.

 

“Yes, good evening Mister Holmes,” John said as he loosened his death grip on his cane and stepped forward so he could extend his hand in greeting.

 

“Sherlock, please.” Sherlock shook his hand with his leather glove clad hand before releasing it and hopping onto the stoop of the building and knocking at it with four precise raps. John felt the reverberations through the air and shivered slightly. “Got this on a deal you know,” Sherlock stated, sounding more like he was talking to himself than to John.

 

“Really? What did you put up some shelves or something?” John didn’t know why anyone would make a deal on a central London flat. Before Sherlock could answer, though, the door opened and a women spoke.

 

“Sherlock, dear, how nice. I’m so glad you took me up on my offer, ” a kindly sounding old woman cooed. John heard the rub of fabric and assumed, from his knowledge of older women, that Sherlock was a bone crushing hug that he had no hope of disengaging from until she saw fit.

 

“Oh, and who's this spry young an you’ve got with you?” She asked after she had released Sherlock. John smiled in her general direction before shuffling forward a bit to introduce himself.

 

“I'm John Watson,” he replied, sticking out his hand. She shook it politely before introducing herself as well.

 

“Well, John, I’m Mrs.Hudson, the landlady, come inside now its too cold to be standing about outside this time of year.” She led them into a foyer and then John heard Sherlock start to ascend a set of stairs.

 

'Great,' he thought. John began his much slower ascent, feeling out each step before lifting his weight onto it. The last thing he needed was to fall down a flight and break something.

 

It was slow going and he could hear Mrs. Hudson behind him taking a small step every time he did. By he time John made his way upstairs Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet. The medical part of John's brain listed it off as a nervous tick no doubt from the nicotine withdrawal – John could still smell the smoke on Sherlock's coat. He swung open the door and bounded inside, the heels of his shoes slapping against the hard wood and causing sound waves to ricochet around the room. John followed along with Mrs.Hudson and had to admit the place was rather nice.

 

He ran his hand over the paper on the wall and was surprised to feel a rather boisterous design that he had to admit was fitting. There was also a couch against one wall and two chairs, from what he could hear, near the other one.

 

“There's another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms that is,” Mrs. Hudson said. That made John's mind stutter to a halt in the midst of its musings. Did people think they were together? They'd only just met how could someone, or anybody in this case, think they were dating? He recovered quickly enough and turned to where Mrs.Hudson had last made her comment.

 

“Of course we'll be needing two, why wouldn’t we?” John was confused. People couldn’t think they were a couple, could they? Maybe she was just joking.

 

“Oh, don’t worry dear. Mrs. Turner, next door, she's got married ones,” Mrs.Hudson said with smile in her voice before turning to Sherlock and asking, “So, Sherlock, what about those muggings? You know the ones where they don’t even take anything. Shame really,” She questioned as she walked into another room and began fiddling with what sounded like a kettle. John's ears perked up. Muggings? What did this guy actually do for a living?

 

John had been tempted to look him up last night on the new laptop he'd barely touched but he had decided against it. For some reason, whether it be resentment or self-pity, he loathed the thing. It was like a constant reminder of what a complete failure he was. But, no time for that.

 

Stepping forward slightly and running a hand over the back of his neck he asked, “What is it exactly that you do? For a job I mean. From what you said yesterday about me and my sister I'd say detective but something tells me you’re not one for all that paperwork.” Sherlock chuckled. It was a warm sound and the noise of it resounded throughout the room.

 

“No, I loathe the stuff. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world. When Scotland yard is out of their depth, which is always, I step in, solve the crime, and everyone goes home happy. Well, not the murderer, but I can't please everyone. I actually did a study on being found guilty and its effects on the brain...”

 

“Lord knows everyone's in need of that,” Mrs.Hudson said sarcastically, then turning to him, chided “Deary, sit down, you’re standing there like a statue,” And before he could protest John was tugged into a soft chair near the other end of the room and a cup of freshly brewed tea was thrust in his hands. She was surprisingly strong for an older lady.

 

“Now, I'll just leave you boys to your business.” She tittered out and down the stairs, favouring her right hip over her left.

 

Sherlock and John sat in amiable silence for a few minutes, each man taking periodic sips of tea until all that was left was the bottom of the cup. Clicking his cane twice against the hard wood of the floor John heard the table in front him and placed his tea cup on it.

 

“So, Sherlock, how did you guess all those things about me yesterday?” John asked, trying to make polite conversation.

 

“John, I never guessed, I simply observed. I knew you were a doctor right when you walked in. You managed to avoid the corner edge of the mass spectrometer that almost every unaccustomed patron hits with their hip. Only a person who studied at Bart's would know it was there. Mike was also attempting to engage you in conversation about old times. Mike majored in medicine and people who share majors often befriend one another. I knew you were blinded with some sort of air born gas because it leaves a certain discolouration to the iris. Yours were, originally, probably a dark blue but they are now much lighter and tinged with a yellow circle. Your sclera is also a bit yellow as well. Kidnapped because there are old defensive wounds on the front of your knuckles that are consistent with hand to hand combat. Now, where would a doctor get kidnapped and then nearly die due to over exposure to tear gas? Answer, either Afghanistan or Iraq. So Ex-army doctor. As for the 'on patrol' bit that, well, that was a guess.” John stared in awe, not quite able to keep his jaw from opening a bit in surprise at this flood of information.

 

“Now your sister, the divorce, and alcoholism. That was rather easy, your phone was left open to your latest conversation when I turned it on and it was with someone named Harry. She could be your cousin or another friend but your conversation consisted of you saying that she had to clean up her act or Clara would never take her back so most likely sister. Harry, could be brother, but brothers very rarely have their other brother yelling, in all caps, the name Harriet at them. She's overbearing because what sister doesn’t have a overprotective, mothering, side to them. Now, Clara. Could be girlfriend but when I was exiting the chat your phone where you had two numbers, 'Harry' and 'Harry and Clara'. That shows that they live together and the fact she mentioned divorce several times proved they’re married, or at least for now,” Sherlock finished and the pause was pregnant. There was a lot of material to take in all at once. There were so many things that John wanted to say but they all got stuck in his throat.

 

“That...That was amazing!” was what finally decided to come out.

 

Sherlock let out an amused noise and said, “That's not what people usually say.”

 

“What do they usually say?” John questioned. Who would think these man's talents anything other than extraordinary?

 

“Piss off,” he chuckled. John thought about it and, in the end, acquiesced that, in some instances, the flaying out of one's personal life could be taken offensively. He refocused when he heard Sherlock's phone ring in his pocket. He let out a huff before fumbling around for it. It clicked as he opened it and answered with a terse 'hello'. Then there was a fit of movement as the man sprung out of the chair like a rocket and started talking at top speed on his mobile, shouting to the other person about killing patterns and timing, before he hung up.

 

“Those imbeciles wouldn’t know a killing spree if it was written on a wall in front of their faces. Honestly is it that hard to see that the murderer is mugging his victims every third alleyway off of every second street? I pity the soul who goes to _them_ for help.” Sherlock had crossed the room at this point in his tirade and John could hear his putting his coat on.

 

“I'll just stay shall I? I mean if that’s okay with you, since you’re going out,” John said moving so he was facing Sherlock. All at once the movement stopped and the footsteps came closer to his chair.

 

“How did you know I was going anywhere?” Sherlock sounded intrigued and John could picture a furrowed brow and intense eyes though he didn’t know what colour.

 

“I heard you putting your coat on,” John responded, shrugging his shoulders, “the logical assumption wad that you were going out unless you’re just cold, which, in that case, you should just turn up the heating.”

 

“You could hear me putting my coat on _over_ me speaking?” Sherlock sounded incredulous, like he hadn’t been the one to figure out John's entire life story from a quick glance and a phone.

 

“Well, yeah, I need something or I might as well sit in a padded box because I'd hurt myself to easily.”

 

“So how good is your hearing?”

 

“Very good, better than most at my age,” John replied, standing up so he could at least gain a little leverage in this never ending flow of questions.

 

“How far away can you hear with clarity?”

 

“Don t know, never tried. I assume pretty far considering I heard Mike from across the park yesterday.”

 

“Do you want to help me catch a mugger?”

 

“Oh god, yes.”

 

“Well, come on then, lets go.” So, off John went, to catch a mugger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to add that blind persons really can hear like this. I have a friend who uses the cane and she can hear where most things are located because of the echos.  
> Also i'm giving John slightly better hearing due to lacking of a certain sense that shall remain nameless.  
> As always feel free to comment of leave kudos because I love it.  
> XOXO


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait, life kinda sucks right about now

And so they did. The night was a whirlwind of gunshots and fists. Bloodied cheeks and bruised shoulders. John hadn't had an adrenaline rush this great since Afghanistan and his world going dark. Sherlock had aided him in some things, being sure that John knew the layout of where they were and could always hear his footsteps or voice as they hid.

John had felt so useful, so helpful. Sherlock had had him listen for where the killer was, determining the best time to strike. Of course there had been a struggle, always was, but John had been ready. When the guy rounded the corner of the alley he'd used his cane to knock him out, giving a satisfied huff when the man's body made a heavy 'thumping' sound as it hit the ground.

Both breathing heavily they'd made their way to the front of the street where Sherlock greeted a some man named Lestrade and exchanged words. Something about calling them first before flouncing off to catch the killer himself, John smirked at the last bit, even for only knowing Sherlock less than a day he knew that that would never be.

And so that was that, they became Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, intertwining beautifully in each other's lives. Best and only consulting detectives in the world. The flurry of cases thrilled John as much as they did Sherlock, each one providing a new buzz shot through John's brain. He loved sitting in his arm chair, listening as Sherlock shouted and griped about a case. John imagined what he looked like. From the way his voice carried John assumed he was over 180 cm tall, had a face that stood out with all sorts of interesting angles, and had dark auburn hair maybe covering the tips of his ears. But what John loved most was the man's deep baritone. It resonated throughout the flat whenever the man hollered for Mrs.Hudson or for John to retrieve his phone from his suit jacket... that he was wearing. It was all quite mad but lord did John love it.

Sherlock was also brilliant so that helped as well. Sitting and waiting for an idea to finally hit the genius and to hear the tell tale 'oh' that usually came after, it was exciting. Sherlock was also helpful in ways John hadn't thought he’d be. He'd convinced John to write again with the excuse that he needed his cases documented and that John was the most convenient.

Evenings were normally spent like this, John pecking away slowly at his keyboard, Sherlock either sat at the table doing some of his barmy experiments or sitting across from John in his leather chair with a book in his hand, flipping through the pages every so often with a quiet shuffle.

Of course they went to crime scenes, John helping out in any way he could, though usually standing aside to let Sherlock see what he obviously couldn't. At one of these crimes scenes was where John and Sherlock were, Sherlock looking down a the body and John standing next to Sherlock where the man had positioned him. Detective Inspector Lestrade was a few feet away where he always was as Sherlock examined the body. John could feel the wind currents as he danced around the prone form on the floor, mumbling under his breath as he did so. John imagined him in the long coat that he wore so often, eyes flickering with interest at the prospect of the puzzle. He could practically smell the excitement rolling off the detective as he went and John allowed himself a small smile. It was charming to feel the man's captivation with the riddle.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said blandly, “fascinating that even you trained monkeys could miss such specific clues to who the killer is and where to find her,” the detective finished. John huffed, leaning more heavily on his cane as the man started rattling off deductions at the speed of sound. Apparently, the man lying on the floor in front of them had been stabbed multiple times by his ex-wife. Sherlock explained that the man had been seeing her sister and she had then killed him in a fit of rage fueled jealously. John was only really half listening, throwing in the usual 'fantastic' and 'brilliant' as the man continued his lecture on the mental incompetence of Lestrade's forensic team; something about the victim's tie pin and shoe polish. Not that he wasn't interested in Sherlock's conclusions but when the case was boring it was harder to pay attention.

“Oi, come on! He's got to be making this up!” Anderson exclaimed from the corner of the room. John bristled. Out of everyone who was rude and crass to Sherlock Anderson was the worst. Besides being an absolute idiot, he was a total berk, he always treated Sherlock poorly and it made John want to slug him in the neck. Sherlock was the genius and with talents such as his he should commended, not ridiculed. “I bet he's the one who killed him. Look at that bloody smile on the Freak's face. He's trying to pin it on an innocent woman. The Freak would do something like that. You really going to let an addict on the scene? He's probably high right now. He's...”

“Would you shut up!” John bellowed from his spot. His face was burning and his pale and scarred eyes were alight with rage. His grip on his cane was so tight he was sure his knuckles were white. There was complete silence as he continued, “That man solves almost all your cases, if not all of them, and you treat him like he was dirt. He's smarter than the lot of you put together and if it weren't for him you’d all be out of a job! So shut up and let the man speak! For God's sake!” John was panting a bit and his stomach turning itself in knots as the silence continued. He shuffled, shifting his weight from foot to foot and was relieved when a voice cleared it's throat and began to speak.

“Yes, well, I, um, I've given you all you really need. The ex is too smart to stay in town for any length of time. Try her sister's vacation house in Scotland, she'll be there. Come, John.” John heard the man stride away, quick to follow his footsteps. He kept his face down to hide the embarrassed flush spreading over to of his ears and cheeks. God, he'd made such a scene. He should have just let Sherlock handle it. The man had never seemed to mind it. Why did John have to go and make it worse? Sherlock was a grown man and didn't need John defending him.

When he heard Sherlock halt and a cab pull up to where they were standing John got in, sliding as close to the window as he could. John heard Sherlock get in beside him and tell the cabbie the address and soon the cab was driving quickly towards 221B Baker Street. He felt like such a tit. He'd had to go and make things awkward. Anderson was an idiot but if John spent all his time defending Sherlock against idiots he wouldn't have any time left. The ride was stiff and uneasy; the tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife.

All too soon and or maybe much too late the cabbie pulled up to Baker Street. John obligingly took out the number of notes the cabbie demanded as Sherlock leapt from the vehicle as if it were on fire.

John's cane thumped rhythmically as he made his way into the foyer and up the stairs, following behind Sherlock slowly as they walked into the flat.

Facing the approximate corner where the coat rack was and removing his coat John began, “Listen, Sherlock, I’m sorry for what I...” He never finished the sentence as for the pair of lips crashing against his, pushing his back against the door, and a pair of hands pulling at the collar of his shirt. John's entire body froze for a moment, completely lost as in how to react, before instinct kicked in and his lips began to work against Sherlock's. His body was buzzing and when a tongue gently traced the seam of his lips he let a small, breathy moan.

The pair of lips drew away and a head rested on his shoulder, a comforting and welcome weight. “Don’t, don’t apologise. You've no idea how much of an enigma you are John Watson. You contradict in so many ways that should make you predictable and boring yet only serve to make you more complicated. Don’t ever apologise for doing what you did.” A soft kiss was pressed to the underside of his jaw and John shuddered. An hour ago the man had been complaining about John organising the human body parts/ food that was kept in the fridge so he didn't accidentally almost eat a toe again and now he was kissing John, clinging to his shirt and pressing his lips above his pulse point.

“You, you've thought about this then?” John asked. How could a man so extraordinary, so maddeningly brilliant and enlightened, find anything interesting about a blind ex-army doctor.

“Oh, at length. I've spent much of my time in my mind palace dedicating a specific room just to the depth and complexity of your jumpers. You show such common traits such as loyalty and sentiment yet you have an underlying layer which creates an entire new entity that is not your facade. You are the one puzzle that my mind has been stuck on since you limped into the lab at Bart's.” Sherlock began sucking on his neck causing the most electrifying sensation to flood John's system. Those words, said in that thrilling baritone, echoing about the room sent a rush of blood to John's cock. Stuck with his back against the wall John attempted to speak only to be silenced by the man's lips upon his once more. John's mind was reeling, the feeling of their bodies pressed together was ever so enticing and intoxicating that John's knees went weak, held up only by Sherlock's strong hands on him.

A thigh slid slowly between John's own and put the barest amount of pressure on his erection, eliciting a deep groan that resonated off the walls of the flat. Sherlock's lip and tongue were insistent, pillaging his mouth and sliding along his teeth.

Slowly John felt himself being pulled in the direction of the hallway, the echoes of their pleasure bouncing off the narrow corridor and through John's head like lightening. It was when they reached Sherlock's room that he found his breath speeding up and heart pounding in his chest. He felt like it was cracking his ribs with each breath and every pant that Sherlock breathed in his ear.

There was a softness against his back as Sherlock gave him a gentle push back into his bed, breath ragged and laboured as the detective climbed over top of him and cadged him into the mattress. How he wished to see those radiant eyes gleam and reflect the light, he wanted to see them beam and glow as everything went on. Eyes used to be the window to everything for John and the world had managed to strip him of that.

A soft sob broke forth from his lips at the realization and Sherlock's lips were instantly removed from their position on his collarbone.

“John? If my pace is too fast you must tell me. I do not wish to hurt you. If,” John was shaking his head as the man spoke, letting a few tears escape his eyes as he tried to school himself.

“No, no it's just, your eyes. I wish I could see them, I wish I could see everything that I used to. There is little that I can tell about you from your voice and touch. Your brilliance is in your eyes, Sherlock, and I can't see it. I wish I could see your face, your facial features and how they look in every expression possible,” John attempted to stop the flow of words but they wouldn't stop, “Everything about you is visual and I...I’m not able to see it. Your soul, I wish I could see your soul.” John shut his lids and breathed deeply. He'd just managed to ruin a beautiful moment by becoming an emotional wreck. Tears still seeped out from behind of his closed eyes even as he tried to stop.

A gentle kiss to just under his eyes made John gasp in surprise, lids opening in surprise. A thumb brushed across his cheekbone and cleared away the remaining wetness.

“You, my dear Watson, have nothing to see that you have not already. Let yourself feel my soul and do no more.” He kissed John tenderly, moving his lips slowly, letting John relax in his grip once again.

John hands fluttered about uselessly as Sherlock kissed down his sternum, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. It was after a moment that John remembered the scars. The numerous deep, pink, gouges in his abdomen, back, and arms that reminded him everyday of what he went through. The many patchy regions where his skin had been burned away. The unbelievable agony he endured and the sickness he felt as his flesh melted beneath the white hot fire poker. The torment of the man's sharp knife as he raked I down John's arms, shredding his skin to thin slivers stuck to bone. He felt the torment of the gas clawing at the skin of his throat and outer body, sliding around his body and dissolving pieces of himself.

John tried to wriggle away, to have Sherlock not see the remnants of his nightmares, the things his nightmares were born from, but he was held firmly in place. He waited, for the disgust, the revulsion, but it didn’t come. Butterfly kisses were pressed to the tops of raised and patchy flesh, tongue roving the scars and feeling the different textures.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock whispered, almost reverently, slowly divesting John of his shirt. John heard more buttons being undone and a shirt hitting the floor. He reached a tentative hand upwards, palm meeting hard pectorals and a fine dusting of downy hair. From there he allowed his hands to roam as Sherlock continued his ministrations on John's torso and arms. Below there was wiry muscle and above a collarbone sharp enough to cut glass. Sherlock's hair was soft and thick, made up of full and springy curls; each running through John's fingers like silk.

Johns breath stuttered to a halt as Sherlock's lips kissed just above the waistband of his jeans and pants after following the trail of fine, golden hair. One final kiss and sure hands were undoing the button and sliding down John's zip, causing his heart to palpitate wildly in his chest and breath to come in irregular intervals. The garments hit the floor with a low thud and were followed soon after with one just as similar.

“Shh, relax, you’re fine, just feel,” Sherlock whispered in John's ear when he let out a small whimper. Sherlock's lips were up at his again and John took great comfort in that. Continuing to kiss John, Sherlock's hands moved to his thighs, spreading them and rubbing his fingers along the insides, letting John sigh heavily into his mouth. He listened as the fingers left and the crack of a cap could be heard throughout the room. Sherlock's fingers returned, slick with lube and teased at his hole, going slowly and inserting a single finger carefully. There was dull pressure as Sherlock's finger entered him. He worked the digit in and out of John thoroughly until it was comfortable, placing another in and then another, to be sure John was properly prepared.

John was achingly hard at this point and wanted Sherlock desperately, small moans escaping his mouth and puffing into Sherlock's face.

Slowly and ever so gingerly the detective pushed his cock into John's tight heat, inner walls fluttering around his member and causing the arms supporting him to shake. The movement was so caring and careful, entering John at a crawling pace so as not to hurt him, it caused John to cry out and wrap his legs around Sherlock's delicate waist, feeling the man's sharp ribs poking him. The stretch was glorious and the feeling of adrenaline lit his body ablaze, every nerve ending tingling with pleasure as the man sunk into John.

John kept his eyes looking straight up into where Sherlock's face would be, hoping desperately that he was looking somewhere near his eyes. He let out a series of loud groans when the man's cock nudged his prostate, sending a shot of pure pleasure careening through John's body, making his breath quake from his lungs.

Undulating his hips Sherlock began to pump in and out of John, shushing him as mewls of bliss were pulled from John. His cock was weeping pre-come over his stomach and every time Sherlock's cock bumped John's prostate it sent him that much closer to falling from the edge. His hands were tangled in the locks on Sherlock's head, pulling him close for kisses that flickered over John's eyelids, his cheekbones, his nose, everywhere Sherlock's lips could reach.

“You are so beautiful like this John. You are so gorgeous and I wish the English had enough variants for me to express that to you in a new word everyday,” Sherlock gasped in John's ear, barely managing to get through the sentence as his orgasm came closer. John's entire body stiffened, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' as he tumbled over the edge into oblivion. His vision was dotted and eyes unfocused as he spilled over himself. He clenched his walls around Sherlock as the man continued to thrust in and out of him, chasing his own orgasm, the quivering of John's hole finally sending him into the haze post-orgasmic euphoria.

They lay there panting into each other's mouths, muscles shaking from the exertion. Sherlock searched John's face, eyes flicking over each feature that was painted with pure unadulterated pleasure. John twitched as Sherlock pulled out of him, head lolling to the side, breathing heavily and lids drooping lower and lower over his eyes. The detective pulled a hand full of tissues from the bedside table to clear John's skin of his cooling come before pulling the duvet over the both of them, cushioning John's head on his chest and carding his fingers through the doctor's hair, the gentle feeling lulling the man into deep sleep as Sherlock's glasz eyes looked on at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be just one more chapter after this. yay!  
> No beta, no brit-picker, and it's like three here so please message me if there are any horrid mistakes.  
> XOXO


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd  
> Un-britpicked  
> Please tell me if there are any mistakes and I will make sure to fix them.  
> Thanks all for reading and waiting for this last update. I really wanted to get this up sooner but finals horrid and I needed all my time for studying but, hey, I passed all my classes so I hope the wait wasn't terrible.  
> Hopefully you'll like the ending of this.  
> Either way, enjoy!

_Bullets, no, gas. Gas filling his lungs, burning his skin and scalding his eyes. His pitiful coughs ragged as he convulsed in the foetal position. Now there were pinches along his skin as white hot pokers burned his skin; the laughs of his tormentors echoing from all around the cell as his body fought against the fire spreading through it. The blindfold only managing to exacerbate the noise. He fought; the tight rope ripping his skin open and smearing the blood, tissue ragged and loose around his wrists. His throat choking on all the blood and his mouth swollen. His mind flipped again and he was back to being beaten. The large pipes and bats were fury against his skin, breaking through bone like balsa wood, the jeers and questions being shouted at him congealing in his mind and coming to a halt before he could discern them. He cried, and cried, the pain welling up through his mouth and eyes..._

John screamed and leapt from his attackers as he suddenly felt the bonds break from around his body. He ran until he felt a wall beneath his fingertips, bracing himself against it and shrinking away from the noise, so much noise, it was all static to his brain. He reached towards his face to pull off the mask but instead felt nothing but his eyes, wide and blinking thought there was still inky darkness before them. John scrabbled at his face, wailing as he did. His fingernails scratched and clawed until his throat hurt. He slid down the wall, face hidden in his knees as he sobbed.

He couldn't remember where he was but he knew it wasn't his room and that was what terrified him. It was strangeness all around until he heard it, brain finally pulling itself together enough to make out shouts of his name. Terrified and extremely worried shouts of 'John! John!' were making it through to his brain and slowly, oh ever so slowly, his mind came back to him, little bits of information trickling into his traumatized mind, clicking pieces together and clearing out the white noise slowly filtered out.

John tried to stop shaking, to speak, to do anything but all that came out was a broken 'Sh-Shr'lck' before his face crumpled again and he hid it behind his hands. He cried and sniffed and rubbed his snotty nose on the back of his hands.

He stiffened when a hand was placed tentatively at his shoulder, gentle fingers caressing the marks that were there. After a moment John leaned into the gesture and accepted the arms that were around his torso a moment later. The strong arms held him loosely enough so he did not feel trapped but tight enough that John knew there was safety where he was, that these arms would always be a safe place to be. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, nuzzling his face into the sweet smelling juncture where neck met shoulder, breathing slowly and trying to calm himself as best he could.

“It's fine,” Sherlock murmured in the quiet room, “it's all fine, you’re fine, you’re okay.” He rubbed at John's back, the pads of his palm bumping over the surface where so many scars were strewn, scattered like seeds in a field. John breathed out, warm breath on Sherlock's shoulder, and finally calmed down enough to give out a little laugh.

“I bet that’s not something you've had much experience in then?” John asked as he was slowly pulled to his feet and guided to the loo where upon he sat on the bathtub rim and waited for Sherlock to get the first aid kit out.

“On the contrary, my grandfather was part of the royal army and, even in his late eighty's, had to be talked down from his mental state of terror. I was present in his and grandmother's cottage one night and when that happened. It was terrifying yet the fact that grandmother knew what to do straight away always stuck with me. The next time I stayed over and it happened I watched and documented everything. Though it is a bit different to have it happening in the bed right beside you,” Sherlock explained as he tenderly applied cream to the shallow cuts on John's face, hands careful and sure. John winced, guilt pooling low and heavy in the pit of his stomach. His body was still shaking and controlled breathes coming from his lungs. It'd been his fault. Sherlock shouldn't have to deal with such a broken person; a person who woke up screaming and running from the very bed they’d made love on.

He felt Sherlock's eyes focused on him, most likely watching intently and taking each piece of information with a flick of his irises. John shivered and wished that he'd had something on before tumbling out of bed, the cold edge of the tub curling up his back and making him shiver where he sat.

Sherlock was so utterly careful with John, so different than the facade that he acted with when they were at crime scenes, cold and soulless. No, this was Sherlock in his purest form, so perfect and flawless. His hands caressed John's face, feather light and butterfly soft, tracing each cut, placing plasters over any particularly deep ones. His hands were so gentle and mindful.

Tugging gently at John, Sherlock helped him from his slightly deformed position on the tub and back into the warmth of his bed, wrapping the sheets around their forms and creating a snug cocoon. Fingernails shifted through John's hair while puffs of breath made their way over his chest, making small damp patches over his skin and chest. Sherlock curled himself around John, mindful of John's various self-inflicted injuries. His hands coming around John and squeezing lightly, acknowledging the fact that it wouldn't be welcomed if he were to hold on too tightly.

“You know,” Sherlock started, clearing his throat, “My grandfather used to talk to gran, he'd talk about what he'd dreamt of. It may help. I've read studies that say accepting and coming to terms with certain traumas in one's life may actually decrease the amount of night terrors. Though, I’m sure that idiot therapist would have told you that had she any real experience with PTSD patients. You really should have fired her like I told you to, you’d be much better off.” He stopped when John began to chuckle under his breath, twisting around in Sherlock's embrace until he was sure he was looking somewhere in the right direction of Sherlock's face.

“What? What's so funny?” Sherlock questioned, and John could almost picture the furrow between eyebrows, the vaguely put out expression crossing over his face and that plush lower lip popping out in a slightly more grown up version of a pout. With a sigh, John covered Sherlock's still running mouth with his own, effectively silencing the man.

When he was sure there wouldn't be another long running commentary he pulled away, his face feeling flushed and mouth puffy. Against Sherlock's lips he whispered, “Someday, when I’m a bit less lost and a lot less broken I'll tell you want you haven’t been able to deduce. I'll tell you anything just right now I need for you to just, to just not ask.” It was almost like a plea, John's breath shaking and coming out a bit raspy. Sherlock nodded, his forehead brushing against John's with the motion and soft curls tickling his skin.

John laid back, Sherlock's hands firm on his torso, thumbs brushing over the raised and puckered skin of his many, many scars.

“You've some questions to answer as well I suppose,” John said, placing his hands on Sherlock's and pushing them back from where they’d been roaming.

“Mmm? Do I? What would those be then?” Sherlock asked, the smirk evident in his voice.

“Yes, you see, I find it highly disconcerting that I've no idea what the man next to me looks like. I've got the basics: about 180 cm tall, 70 kg, that's too thin by the way and we will be fixing that, curly hair, the usual. But there are other things. Eye colour for one, no idea what that is, hair colour, skin tone, shapes of things. Is your leg hair darker than that on your head? Freckles? Birthmarks? How does the sun reflect in your eyes? What about in the dark?This is the important stuff you realise.” John finished, facing Sherlock while his left arm supported the weight of his head while his other smoothed the sparse hair over Sherlock's chest, tweaking his nipples in between two fingers and relishing the small gasp that escaped from between his lips.

“There are so many variables to what your appearance is that I don’t think I'll ever know just exactly how you look. It's understandable that you won't know all these answers, but,” John paused, sucking in a breath before blowing it out again, “But I was an extremely visual person before Afghanistan. Always loved to watch and see. The world around me was filled with such lovely people that looked nothing alike, how could I pass up seeing the details that made them how they were? Though not to the extent you do.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment, John pressing his hand up and down his torso and feeling his heart beat beneath his skin, pumping blood in and out.

John felt a hand on the back of his head then, pulling him down for a soft and tentative kiss. Sherlock's lips so soft against his, working gently and carefully. His hands twined delicately in John's hair, pulling their bodies closer, until they were flush together, legs tangled and breathes coming in short pants.

“You, John Watson, are the ultimate conductor of light. I will never find one who brings light to my mind and at the same time tame its wild careening. You bring those thoughts to the fore front of my mind in the best possible way. To have such love for the human race, not in the miniscule facts that they can provide, but in the beauty of every individual. It is amazing.” Sherlock breathed, breath still heavy with the bitter tang of morning breath. John lungs were still recovering and trying to pull oxygen in but their rhythm stuttered at Sherlock's declaration. Sherlock breathed over him again, shifting closer and into a more intimate position before he began to speak again, voice clear and strong.

“My hair has been described as a dark chocolate brown; almost black. I have a eye mutation called heterochromia iridis that is a combination of the colours blue, green and gold. They change to the variations of those colours in different lighting. Mrs Hudson has always commented on how pale I am so there's that. I only get freckles when I’m in the sun for prolonged periods of time and then that just leads to awful sunburn. My hair on the rest of my body is actually a bit lighter than my head, and,” John listened contentedly as Sherlock spoke about his looks. From the funny crook on his second toes to the shape of his nose. His baritone deep and comforting. Sherlock's right arm was wrapped firmly around John's shoulder while his other hand gesticulated about in the air. His head was placed on Sherlock's chest and through all the layers of skin and bone and tissue, John could hear as well as feel that wonderful heart beat out a steady cadence in his chest cavity. The constant beat of his heart as well as Sherlock's deep voice lulling John into a peaceful doze. Warm and content to just lie there forever.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! A big thank you for everyone who read this. I know this story probably had the worst update schedule ever (though not as bad as Sherlock!) but I chose the worst year to start putting my stories up. My updates with other stories should be better through the summer break so there's that. Again thank you to everybody who stayed through the beginning to the end. The comments really kept me going when things got tough.  
> I love you all and hopefully you like the ending  
> XOXO  
> P.S I'm thinking of making this a series and posting little fics during holidays and such as a glimpse into their life. Would anyone like that?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay all these symptoms that John has are in extremely extreme cases. Blindness does not just happen with a little schpritz to the face. This happens when it surrounds your entire being and is in an enclosed area.  
> I'm also changing a few things around because if I didn't they'd be using the same dialogue.  
> Comments and Kudos make me fluffy on the inside so please leave them.  
> All mistakes are mine and so yeah...  
> XOXO  
> (I will try to update weekly but, ya know, life tends to get in the way. And by life I mean school.)


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